


The Passion According To H. G.

by HPFandom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Explicit Language, F/M, First Time, Heterosexual Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Sexual Content, Spoilers, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-19
Updated: 2008-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-30 12:04:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10162664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPFandom_archivist/pseuds/HPFandom_archivist
Summary: I don't know what got into my head, writing het, but here it is. No less perverse than my slash, I trust. Snape and Hermione, based upon the films, not the books.It seems as if Hermione is a little bit insane. I didn't intend for her to be so hysterical, so ecstatic. I think I must have read too much Hélène Cixous lately, my writing is just smitten with jouissance... Hence the title, "The Passion According to Hermione Granger" of course, but also an allusion to "The Passion According to G. H." by Clarice Lispector, which I haven't read but which Cixous loves and paraphrases as "The Passion According To C.L."This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.





	1. The Potions Test

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

Hermione couldn’t sleep. It was a big day tomorrow. Potions test. She had read and reread the fifth year textbook, which she had by the way known by heart at least since her third year, as well as some related literature she had found in the library. Still she wasn’t confident enough to fall asleep and get the rest she needed. This time she had to get it right! There must be no mistakes in her answers, not a single one. But she knew it was useless. No matter how perfect her answers were, professor Snape always returned her tests with some sarcastic comments in the margins. If he could find nothing wrong with the content, he remarked upon her punctuation. Or even her longhand, which tended to get all shaky and irregular in potions class. He was so cruelly unfair to her, and yet she couldn’t just tell herself that’s the way it was, she still struggled to please him…  
No use in wasting time when she was lying awake anyway! With a sigh, she reached for the book on top of the pile on her bedside table and used her wand as a flashlight to read under the blankets. The letters were crawling around like ants before her eyes. It might be one of the librarian’s jinxes on the books, but more likely she was just too tired to be able to focus properly. She closed her eyes and tried to recall some crucial passages from the books instead. Snippets of text mingled with each other maddeningly. Obviously, she was too tired to concentrate on that, too. With another sigh, she tossed the book aside and put out the light at the tip of her wand. She knew it would all come back to her as soon as she had the test before her. It always did. Even in potions, where a glance from professor Snape, be it an imagined one as she had her head bent over the desk, was enough to unsettle her.   
She saw him before her, glaring darkly at her from across the classroom. It made her breathe raggedly, she was so anxious. Perhaps if she… Sometimes it helped to touch herself when she was dead tired but too tense to sleep. Ever since she had discovered that a couple of years ago she had often used it to unwind after long nights of study.   
Her hand found its way inside the waistband of her pyjama pants. So, there. That felt better. She stroked herself, almost comfortingly at first, then more desperately. Would the relief ever come, or was she too tense even for that? Finally, after going completely rigid and biting into the pillow in order not to disturb her roommates, she felt the blessed relaxing warmth spread through her muscles. She fell asleep, her cheeks flushed partly from shame and partly from satisfaction.  
The next day, she went to take the test in a trancelike state after too little sleep. She hadn’t dared repeating what she’d read in her head during breakfast, for fear she would discover she’d forgotten it all. She knew breakfast was important for your performance so she’d tried to eat heartily, but failed. Ron’s and Harry’s loud voices had disturbed her, joking and teasing and talking nonsense. They didn’t take the test seriously. It was just a test, not the final exam, even if it was for Snape.  
Even if it was for Snape. She didn’t dare to look at him as she went into the potions classroom and took her seat. Nevertheless, she was painfully aware of the bat-like dark figure standing by the teacher’s desk. The shuffling of feet, scraping of chairs and whispered good luck wishes subsided around her.  
“You may begin… now.” said that deep voice that sounded as though it belonged to a stage actor.  
Hermione couldn’t help glancing up at the teacher as he elegantly flicked his wand to make the tests appear on the desks. Then she drew a ragged breath, grabbed her quill and set to work. It was easy! She knew the answer to every question by heart. Still, she hesitated… She wanted to get it absolutely right. To give professor Snape nothing to remark upon, though she knew her attempts would be in vain.   
Snape was methodically pacing through the room between the rows of desks, his eyes somehow, impossibly, on everyone, all the time. If he noticed something suspicious, he was there with a speed and stealth betraying he was younger than he looked, and a spy. She could hear him approach her desk on his round, and her heart beat faster and faster for each step he took. When he stopped right behind her, she had to put down her quill and rub her sweaty palm dry against her skirt to be able to continue. But even then she couldn’t go on writing as long as he was standing there, observing her.  
“At loss for words, Miss Granger?” he asked, and she could sense beneath the calm surface of his voice how he enjoyed tormenting her.  
She put the quill to the paper, determined to write something just to prove him wrong. She wrote “the”. Her hand was trembling so that it came out almost illegible. At last, she heard him leave and let out a breath of relief.


	2. That Teacher Thing

Hermione had had her fair share of crushes on teachers. No wonder, learning was after all what she admired the most. In first grade, a lot of the other girls had found professor Quirrell cute, but he had failed to move her. She wished she could say it was because she had sensed the evil lurking underneath the shy, stuttering surface, but truth to be told, it was precisely his insecurity and incompetence that had put her off. She preferred teachers who knew what they were talking about. So instead of Quirrell, there had been something about the brisk and sporty Madam Hooch with her whistle that had fascinated the everything but sporty bookworm. Hermione had only been twelve and barely aware there was such a thing as lesbians. She wouldn’t have called it a crush then and even now she wasn’t sure if that was the right word for it, but there had been something…   
In second grade, it had been the big fraud professor Lockhart. She was ashamed to admit it and wished to believe it was due to some sort of charm he had cast upon himself to make him irresistible to his female students. How else could she have failed to notice Snape’s performance during the duel when Lockhart was humiliated and as good as exposed? She must have been hexed by Lockhart to have eyes only for him…  
In third grade, the easygoing professor Lupin had charmed everybody, including her. Her sympathies had begun to shift however, when Snape had heroically tried to rescue her and Harry and Ron, his least favourite students, from Sirius Black, while Black and Lupin were bickering less heroically. She had to admire his adamant consistency in doing the right thing, or what he thought to be the right thing, when it really mattered. He would have died to protect them from the werewolf Lupin turned into, and he didn’t even care for them a bit! As a teacher, he might be unfair and tyrannical but he was also, ultimately, demanding, and as a student, she appreciated that. Well, apart for the one detail that she could never please him, no matter how hard she worked, which kept her awake at night, tossing to and fro in cold sweat…  
In fourth grade, she had been momentarily distracted by the unexpected attention from the much older, and famous, Viktor Krum. Though flattering as it was, the athlete was an idiot and at the ball it had been painfully clear that when they were not dancing they had nothing to talk about. Instead, her reluctant fascination for Snape had grown.   
During the summer vacation between the fourth and fifth year, she had had this thing for the wild, purple-haired Nymphadora Tonks, and now she knew what a lesbian was. But of course she hadn’t dared to speak a word about it to anyone, much less act upon it! And now she was back in school and didn’t see Nymphadora anymore. Only professor Snape was there to fan her fire…  
It was ridiculous, that’s what it was. First of all, he was old. Well, he wasn’t really older than Lockhart or Lupin, but he seemed older. More imposing. Second, and this was related to the first, he had been evil. Really evil. Though she couldn’t help thinking, despite herself, that his being reformed made him more interesting, and perhaps also a greater man than if he had merely been good all along. Third, she resented him for the way he treated Harry, and to a lesser extent his other students. If he was truly a great man, he wouldn’t bully a child the way he did, a poor orphan whose only fault was his unearned and unwanted celebrity. Four, she feared him, a fear she nevertheless struggled to overcome each time she saw him, mustering up all of her Gryffindor courage to raise her hand or even speak out of turn when he refused to acknowledge her. Again and again she tortured herself by doing it and having him mock her or silence her, and the torture was sweet. It didn’t feel sweet, but it must be or he would have frightened her into quiet obedience a long time ago. She craved his attention as much as she feared it, even though it took the form of a sneer or a reprimand.


	3. Potions Class

It was the first potions lesson after the test, and everybody was eager to know whether Snape had marked the tests yet. However, he made no mention of them, merely instructed the students to brew a potion that would induce forgetfulness.  
“Not that any of you need it,” he muttered, “Seeing that nothing seems to penetrate your thick skulls, no matter how often it is repeated.”  
At this, he looked especially at poor Ron.  
“But, sir,” Ron blurted out, “Haven’t you forgotten something too? Aren’t we supposed to get our tests back?”  
“Are you criticising my working methods, Mr Weasley?” Snape asked icily.  
“N-no, sir.” Ron yelped.  
“Then I suggest you keep your thoughts to yourself.” Snape’s voice was menacing, yet all Hermione heard was his beautifully precise pronunciation, “Let this be a reminder.”  
With that, he swiftly approached Ron, which meant approaching Hermione too, and hit him over the head with the considerably heavy black book he held in his hand. Hermione was torn between sympathy for Ron and, she realised, envy. Surely, it wasn’t very pleasant to be hit over the head with a book. But still. Snape never touched her, merely reproached her. Touching her would at least be a kind of increased attention…  
She couldn’t concentrate on brewing the relatively simple potion. She was worried about her test result, despite being sure she’d got all of her answers right. The fear was irrational, tinged with anticipation. She needed to see Snape’s comments on her test, that neat handwriting of his, as straight as his back, leaning neither to the left nor to the right, but decorated with the occasional bold dash. She needed to know how bad it was this time. She needed to torture herself by reading his cruel remarks over and over.  
“For your information, this cauldron is too hot.” Snape’s voice was calmly hammering in the point with every syllable, “Another three minutes at this temperature, and the potion will be spoilt.”   
It was her work he was talking about, though he wasn’t speaking to her, he was speaking to the girl she’d teamed up with.  
“Though I suppose it’s unfair to your classmates to give you that piece of advice.” he added nonchalantly.  
At last, he looked at her, a quick glance from the corner of his eye before he walked away, his black cloak billowing. She forgot to do something about the potion, just stood there with her mouth ajar until her partner nudged her.  
“I know he’s bad, but there’s no need to be paralysed with fear.” the girl whispered.  
Hermione was afraid Snape had heard, that he indeed heard everything, and it made her glare at her mate. The girl thought she’d offended Hermione through her casual remark about being paralysed, since Hermione had once been paralysed by a basilisk.   
“I’m sorry! I forgot!” she said quickly.  
“Nevermind.” Hermione replied, her thoughts already elsewhere.  
Her thoughts already on how disappointed, or triumphant, or both, Snape would be if she indeed failed to make the potion. She cast a cooling spell on the cauldron, hoping it wouldn’t be too late.  
She did indeed manage to salvage the potion, though just barely. When Snape made his round, deciding which potions would do and not, he reluctantly accepted it, not failing to mention that it was thanks to his aid. Then he went and sat behind his desk as the students cleaned up and collected their things.  
“Miss Granger.” he said when everybody was about to leave.  
“Yes, sir?” she replied, hardly daring to look at him.   
“There is something I need to discuss with you, if you have a few minutes to spare in your undoubtedly busy schedule.” His voice was dripping with sarcasm.   
She blushed hard. What was going on? Snape never made her stay after class! She never gave him reason too. She took some time wiping off her desk and putting her books back into her bag, made it last until all of the other students had left the room. Then she went up to him, all the while staring at the floor. It was so humiliating, being asked to stay after class in front of everybody! She knew a Slytherin or two who would no doubt use it as proof that she, Hermione Granger, had lost her grip and was no longer the teacher’s pet she had used to be. That is, every teacher’s pet except professor Snape’s, of course. If Snape had a pet it was that slippery Draco Malfoy, and even him he treated with contempt. Hermione suspected he only felt obliged to favour Draco because Draco was a Slytherin, and that he did it mostly to annoy the Gryffindors in general and Harry in particular.  
“You know what this is about, don’t you, Miss Granger?” Snape asked as she stood before his desk.  
“No, sir.” she admitted.  
“It’s about the test you took last week, Miss Granger.” He put emphasis on every word, as if this would make her understand what it was he wanted to discuss with her.  
She didn’t reply, just waited for him to go on, her knees trembling.  
“You do realise that all of your answers were copied straight out of The Potion Maker’s Handbook, and – perhaps you though I wouldn’t notice this – a few other books as well?”  
As he spoke, a pile of books appeared out of thin air and dropped to the desk in front of her with a loud thud. She recognised everything she had read in preparation for the test.  
“Yes, sir.” she replied, her mouth dry.  
“You don’t seem to understand the gravity of the matter.” Snape remarked in his most fearsome voice.  
“I’m afraid not, professor. If my answers are identical to the textbooks, then surely that must mean they are correct?”  
She bit her tongue. That kind of talking back was bound to irritate the professor even more.  
“Do you know what plagiarism is, Miss Granger?” he asked and raised one eyebrow in the superior way that annoyed her so, annoyed her and something else, she-knew-not-what, “Clearly not. An ambitious student like yourself. How disappointing.”  
Of course she knew what plagiarism was: stealing texts and trying to pass them off as your own. She didn’t see what that had to do with her, or with the potions test, though.  
“Unfortunately for you, Miss Granger, I do. And unlike some teachers, who for some reason seem to think different rules apply to you, I will not tolerate plagiarised answers to my tests.”  
Hermione was fighting back the tears. She knew this was wrong, it must be wrong! Surely plagiarism didn’t apply to tests? Not unless you cheated and brought the book with you to copy it, and Snape didn’t seem to think she had done so. Simply memorising parts out of books couldn’t possibly be wrong, could it? After all, wasn’t that what tests was all about – memorising knowledge?  
“Do you have anything to say to your defence, Miss Granger?” Snape asked coldly.  
Oh, she had plenty of things she wanted to say! But it was useless. You didn’t argue with Snape. Better to just submit to the punishment he saw fit, and pray that he didn’t take too many points from Gryffindor because of her. She hung her head in silence.  
“Wise girl.” Snape remarked.


	4. Discipline According to Professor Snape

Surely, professor Snape wasn’t going to spank her, like a disobedient toddler? Though it seemed oddly fitting that he would sport such a Victorian approach to discipline… Except that it seemed a bit too hands-on for the reserved professor to have to touch his loathed students intimately. Then again, he frequently slapped Ron and Harry and a few of the other boys over the head. Perhaps he wasn’t alien to touch as long as it hurt.  
The situation left little doubt as to his intentions. He had after all asked Hermione to kneel down next to his chair. If “asked” was the right word for it. She waited incredulously, the stone floor cold and hard against her naked knees above the stockings that were part of her school uniform.   
Snape’s next command chased any remaining doubts from her mind: “Pull up your skirt and bend over my knee.”  
She did as she was told, overwhelmed by a mixture of fear, shame, anticipation and a hundred other feelings she couldn’t name that was almost ecstatic. Perhaps this was what it felt like to be a nun and succumb to the strictest of regulations? The joy of giving up everything and surrendering to God. Although in her case it wasn’t God but a deity of questionable virtue. A demon, perhaps. No matter! She could do nothing but obey.   
Snape brusquely pulled her skirt a bit higher, exposing her bottom completely.  
“Ah!” she cried out as his wand lashed down across it.  
His wand! Somehow it made her overflow with joy that he found her buttocks worthy of it, of being imprinted with its mark. His wand that had undoubtedly performed great deeds, both good and evil.  
It lashed down again and this time she merely panted between clenched teeth. The pain increased with each hit, as her bottom became more and more sore. What also increased was the moistness between her legs. Yes, it turned her on. She wouldn’t have known. She hadn’t consciously dreamt of such a thing. But it fulfilled her needs perfectly. All of her desperate need to impress the professor spanked out of her. And all of his attention completely, wonderfully, focused upon her at last.   
After half a dozen hits, maybe more, the beating stopped. She immediately missed it, but then she felt the stinging ache in her buttocks full force and considered that she might not be able to take any more. Snape put away his wand and slipped his hand between her thighs. She realised then what had made him do it: she had made a wet stain on his trousers.   
She was so slippery wet and oh so sensitive when he forced his hand between her cunt and his leg it felt as if there were no knickers in between. His fingers were pushed hard against her clit, pressed between it and his leg. She moaned and couldn’t help rubbing herself against them, trying to do it discreetly.   
When he withdrew his hand, she thought it was punishment for her having enjoyed it too much. But it was only to push her knickers aside and feel her without the offending fabric. She knit her brow and sighed as she felt his fingers caress her swollen folds directly. His thumb slid inside her, much thicker than the fingers she had let slide inside herself, yet not by far thick enough to hurt her virgin cunt in the tumescent state she was in. Not quite thick enough to please her, in fact.   
She shifted to give him a better reach, and could feel how hard he was against her side. So hard, and yet he remained collected, methodically examining her cunt, breathing a little hard from the spanking perhaps. She gasped, overwhelmed by an ache to feel that hard cock inside of her. And yet she could scarcely imagine it. Could scarcely imagine him panting and straining, undressed. The thought of it was frightening. It would make her a woman and him a man, when she would much rather remain a naughty schoolgirl succumbing to her hard teacher. Yes, she blushed to think it but it was true. She wasn’t ready for the responsibility of an affair. Most of all, she didn’t want to see him vulnerable, troubled, human even.  
Like this, without words and without any pretence to mutuality, it was bittersweet. It was like an extension of her feverish nights in the dormitory - as one-sided as masturbation, as involuntary as a fantasy… Only more. She squirmed on his lap, which made him grab her by the collar with his left hand and hold her down. A few strands of her hair got caught in his grip. Oh the sweet pain of feeling the pull at their roots! She squirmed some more only to have him pull harder at her hair.   
All the while his thumb was exploring the insides of her cunt. It found a spot that made her gasp. It pressed harder and made her gasp again. She rode his fingers against his thigh. She came so hard she’d never experienced anything like it before, crying out her pleasure helplessly. He put his left hand over her mouth, not unkindly, just to stop her from screaming and attracting attention. She was so grateful to him at that moment. His mercy the mercy of a god. He didn’t stop stroking her cunt, making her come again and again in decreasing waves, until she lay utterly spent over his knees. He even gave her some time to rest, a few precious minutes.   
Then he took her again by the collar and raised her from his lap until she was standing on her knees by his chair. She knew what was expected of her. She did her best rising steadily to her feet and adjusting her skirt. He was once again professor Snape, showing no signs of what had occurred. She didn’t dare to look at his lap, that would be inappropriate.  
“I trust you won’t repeat your mistake, Miss Granger?”  
Was he saying this would not happen again? She did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Whether the thought of involving herself in something that might get out of hand was worse than the thought of having to sustain herself on dreams and memories from now on. Or was it a question, was he leaving it up to her? If she said she couldn’t promise such a thing, would he take it to mean she wished to be punished again?  
“No, sir.” She didn’t dare say anything else.  
“Very well. Since you have learned your lesson, your test will be marked with a pass. This time.”  
He looked her straight in the eyes, his black gaze not disclosing the hidden meaning of his words, if indeed there was one. Perhaps he had completely reassumed his usual teacher role.   
“Thank you, sir.” she mouthed.   
She was assured he knew she didn’t just thank him for letting her pass the test, although that was still important to her, too. An impulse made her bend her trembling knees in a clumsy curtsey, a gesture he didn’t seem to approve of, before she hurried to pick up her bag and leave.


End file.
